


If Music be the Food of Love (Then Please Stop Playing!)

by AceMoppet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale can't cook for shit, Bad Cooking, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Armageddon, Someone save Crowley, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 10:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19534213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceMoppet/pseuds/AceMoppet
Summary: “Well,” Aziraphale says, hesitating in that lovely way of his, “I was ah. Actually hoping I could cook dinner tonight. If that would be alright with you.”“Of course, angel,” Crowley says, voice softening in the way he always seems to do around Aziraphale. “My kitchen is yours to use.”And with that, it’s done. Aziraphale lights up, and Crowley can’t help but smile. As Aziraphale thanks him, he realizes suddenly that he’s never seen Aziraphale cook before.'It’ll be fine,' he thinks, unable to worry in the face of Aziraphale’s brilliant smile. 'The angel loves to eat! Surely he can cook.'Oh how wrong he was.





	If Music be the Food of Love (Then Please Stop Playing!)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quantumCellist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumCellist/gifts).



> Happy (late) Birthday Emma! Here's just a little thing to celebrate your turning-older and to thank you for dragging me into this fandom. You're quite literally the best person I know, and I am so, so proud of you and everything you do.

Like all good disasters, this one starts on a Sunday.

From all aspects, it seems to be a pretty normal post-Armageddon day. Though Aziraphale had come a long ways away from that lawful good angel he’d been pretending to be back when Crowley had first met him, there were still some customs from Heaven he followed, such as observing the day of rest. As such, he closes the bookstore on Sundays and heads over to Crowley’s, where he lounges around while Crowley does all of his chores, which is like a little middle finger in God’s face and is actually the reason why Crowley leaves off a lot of his chores until Sunday. The first time he’d told Aziraphale that, his angel had blinked at him and opened his mouth, apparently going to scold him, before closing it with an exasperated sigh.

“I really can’t dictate your life,” he’d said, though his eyes had sparkled with amusement. “Although I do hope that you don’t expect me to help you.”

“Of course not,” Crowley had said, teeth gleaming in a wide grin. “You just rest your pretty little head, angel.”

And so the rest of their Sundays together, including this particular one, they’d done exactly that. So really, Crowley did not expect anything to happen when, out of the blue, Aziraphale speaks up.

“It’s almost dinner time.”

Crowley hums and looks up from where he’s been misting his plants. He raises an eyebrow. “I suppose. Where do you want to go for dinner then?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, hesitating in that lovely way of his, “I was ah. Actually hoping I could  _ cook  _ dinner tonight. If that would be alright with you.”

Now, Crowley is not one to be easily charmed. But when Aziraphale, the angel he’s been… alright, he’ll admit it-  _ pining  _ after like a damned schoolboy for almost 6000 years suggests things like  _ this… _

Well. Can anyone really blame Crowley for what he does next?

“Of course, angel,” he says, voice softening in the way he always seems to do around Aziraphale. “My kitchen is yours to use.”

And with that, it’s done. Aziraphale lights up, and Crowley can’t help but smile. As Aziraphale thanks him, he realizes suddenly that he’s never seen Aziraphale cook before.

_ It’ll be fine,  _ he thinks, unable to worry in the face of Aziraphale’s brilliant smile.  _ The angel loves to eat! Surely he can cook. _

Poor Crowley. He’s sealed away his fate, damned himself over a pair of sparkling blue eyes and adorable little wriggles. 

* * *

“Dinner’s ready!”

Crowley ducks into the room and stops in his tracks. “Angel,” he says slowly, trying to smother back a grin, “Just  _ what  _ are you wearing?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale glances down at his apron and smiles at Crowley. “Humans traditionally wear aprons when they cook, and this seemed to be the most popular type of them.”

Crowley steps forward, raising an eyebrow. “Why ever for?”

Aziraphale blinks and puts the pot down, shucking off his (adorable) red oven mitts as he thinks. “I’m not sure,” he says eventually. “Perhaps it’s a way of thanking the person who cooks for their efforts in cooking?”

He says that with a sly grin at Crowley, raising an eyebrow of his own. Crowley scoffs, mostly to hide how he flushes up at that- and really, who knew Aziraphale would be such a  _ menace _ when he’d finally broken himself free of Heaven’s illusions. “Alright,” Crowley mutters, swooping down to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek. “You’ve made your point.”

_ “Thank  _ you.” Aziraphale finally takes off that blasted apron and turns back to the kitchen. “Come help me set the table, will you?”

Soon, they sit down, bowls and spoons at the ready as Aziraphale ladles out their stew. It’s not one Crowley recognizes, so he looks up at Aziraphale in askance. 

“It’s  _ bouillabaisse _ ,” he says, handing Crowley his platter of fish and potatoes. “I’ve only ever had it once, but I remember it was quite delicious!”

“Oh?” Crowley says, taking in the meal before him. It looks… alright no, it doesn’t look good. The stew seems to be clinging together, the potatoes are clearly burnt, and the fish… hm, best not to look at it head-on.

Still, presentation isn’t everything. Crowley holds out hope for the food’s taste as Aziraphale takes a huge bite out of the fish and hums happily. “Eat up!” he says, spooning some of the stew into his mouth.

Well if his angel likes it, it can’t be that bad. With that, Crowley swallows the tiniest spoonful he’s ever had in his entire life-

-And promptly gags.

_ Dear Sata-Go-SOMEONE!  _ Crowley thinks, doing his best not to spit out the stew in Aziraphale’s face.  _ What  _ **_is_ ** _ this?! _

The stew, though it could barely be called as such, is  _ slimy,  _ and somehow manages to be both over and under seasoned at the same time. Crowley shudders, somehow swallowing the little soup he did get in his mouth and resolves not to eat any more of that nonsense. He looks up at Aziraphale, about to suggest they take a jaunty trip to Paris, or Rome, or hell, maybe even up the fucking street to get three-day old packaged Cinnabons because anything would be better than this-

And promptly shuts his mouth because Aziraphale is looking at him with shining eyes. “Well,” he says hopefully, “what do you think?”

What is Crowley going to say to that?  _ Your stew sucks, and I actually don’t think it even qualifies as stew?  _ Hell no!

So he smiles and gulps down another horrible spoonful. “It’s delicious, angel,” he lies, pushing down the urge to vomit. It’s only once after all, he reasons to himself as he scrapes off the burnt pieces on the potatoes. He’s a demon, he can stand a little bit of horrible food-

“Oh good,” Aziraphale says, looking back down at his bowl with a smile. “Still, I don’t think I got the seasoning right. I’ll get it next time though.”

Crowley freezes.  _ Next time? _

“Oh yes!” Aziraphale says, making Crowley realize he’d said that out loud. “I find I rather enjoy cooking, so I’m going to be trying my hand at this more often. Plus, humans say it’s healthier to cook instead of going out every time to eat.”

_ Well,  _ Crowley thinks, horrified,  _ those humans have never tried your cooking. _

“Is that alright with you?” Aziraphale asks. “I don’t really have a kitchen in my bookshop, so I was hoping if you were fine with it…”

And this is it. This is Crowley’s chance to back out, to gently dissuade Aziraphale from his new cooking hobby, and thus save himself from an eternity of utterly dreadful food.

So of course Crowley opens his mouth and says, “I told you before, angel, ‘ my kitchen is yours to use’.”

_ Shit,  _ he thinks,  _ what have I just gotten myself into? _

Still, he has to smile when Aziraphale looks at him with bright, delighted eyes.  _ Ah well,  _ he thinks, resting his cheek on one hand as he stares at Aziraphale,  _ eternity is a long time; surely he’ll get better as he cooks more. _

* * *

Aziraphale does not get better.

If it’s possible, he gets even  _ worse.  _ Over the next few weeks, Crowley is treated to some of the most disgusting concoctions ever known to mankind, and then some. He’s been served cold mashed potatoes with enough garlic to eradicate all known vampires from existence, turkey drier than the Sahara desert with a side of lukewarm cranberry sauce, and, on one memorable, actual boot leather. It had been disguised as bacon, but Crowley swears on everything that’s unholy that it was boot leather.

Every time they sit down to eat, Crowley swears that it’s the last time, that this dinner will be the time he speaks up and tells Aziraphale to stop cooking. And yet every time, Crowley swallows down his bold speech alongside whatever terror Aziraphale has managed to create.

_ You would think that a literal angel would have no trouble cooking, _ Crowley thinks sourly as he takes a bite out of Aziraphale’s mouth-curdlingly sour kimchi.  _ And yet… _

“How is it?” Aziraphale asks, eyes shining.

“Great,” Crowley bites out. “Just great.”

“Thank you Crowley,” Aziraphale says, ducking his head, though it doesn’t quite hide the flush on his face. “You always say the nicest things.”

Crowley sighs. “How many times do I have to tell you, Aziraphale?” he says, stabbing the kimchi with his fork just a little pointedly. “I am a demon. I don’t  _ do  _ nice.”

“And yet,” Aziraphale says, smile a little smug, “You are.”

Crowley rolls his eyes even as he smiles back. “Oh shut up. And eat your food.”

“Yes dear.”

* * *

The one thing Crowley can’t understand is how  _ Aziraphale, _ the true food connoisseur, manages to eat his own cooking.

Surely he must realize how bad his food is! Some of it is horrible enough to be even inedible, and yet Aziraphale blithely takes bite after bite, relishing in the taste of his food.

Crowley tries to bring this up as gently as he can.

“It’s good,” he says, once again lying through his teeth, “but it needs some more salt.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, looking worried. “Do you think so?” He clicks his tongue. “I’m so sorry Crowley, I’ll get it right next time.”

“It’s alright angel,” Crowley says, relieved that he could somehow get his point across. Yes, it doesn’t answer the question of how in the world Aziraphale could even stomach his own food, but hopefully it’ll nudge him in the right direction of when to season and when to not.

Naturally, this leads Aziraphale to dump an ocean’s worth of salt on their next meal. 

“How is the spaghetti, dear boy?” Aziraphale asks, twirling his fork. “Sauce alright? I made sure to add more salt this time!”

_ Yeah,  _ Crowley thinks, trying not to make a face as the sauce slides down his throat,  _ I can definitely see that. _

“Perfectly fine,” he croaks out.

Aziraphale beams, and so goes another meal of Crowley choking down his food to keep that smile on his angel’s face. On the bright side, the spaghetti itself isn’t crunchy this tim-oh wait. No, it is.

* * *

_ Alright, _ Crowley thinks, slinging on the dreaded apron,  _ enough is enough. _

He’s tried everything: from forcing down food in hopes that Aziraphale would get better, to gently advising Aziraphale in terms of cooking, to even, at one point, miracling the food to be at least edible.

But of course, none of these had worked, because Aziraphale never got better, his advice had been taken to the extreme, and the one time Crowley had miracled the food, Aziraphale had noticed, looked at him with sad eyes, and pouted for an entire week until Crowley went out to get three new books for him, first edition of course.

(Aziraphale’s face had lit up in joy when he’d handed them over, so Crowley had decided not to mention that he’d stolen them. The man who’d owned them had been a wanker anyways.)

So now, Crowley’s down to his last two options: tell Aziraphale that he can’t cook, or cook himself.

Crowley is a demon. He’s a being made from evil, for evil, to do evil. And the evilest thing to do would be to tell Aziraphale that his cooking is the absolute vilest thing to ever exist in this universe.

So naturally, Crowley decides to cook dinner.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, looking at him in delight. “You’re cooking!”

“Mhm,” Crowley says absently, making sure to mix everything just right. “Thought I’d give it another go, especially since you’ve been doing all the cooking around here.”

Aziraphale beams. “I  _ was _ wondering when you’d cook again,” he says, coming over to look over Crowley’s shoulder. “I missed your meals from back when we were taking care of young Warlock.”

Crowley looks at him incredulously. “Well then why didn’t you say so?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Oh you know,” he says, ducking his head, “I didn’t want to be a bother. You always do so much for me Crowley and-“

“Aziraphale.” The angel stops talking. Crowley puts down the mixing bowl and turns. “Look at me.”

Aziraphale sighs and looks up. His eyes are soft, unsure, and his mouth is set in a sad line. That simply won’t do.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “You’ve never been a bother.  _ Never.” _

Aziraphale swallows. “Not even when I rejected the very notion of us?”

Crowley smiles and brings up a hand to brush against his cheek. “Not even then,” he says, soft as he can manage.

Beneath his hand, Aziraphale smiles. “Then,” he says, eyes soft and sure, “Will you cook for me Crowley?”

Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Of course, angel.”

* * *

“Wait,” Crowley says afterwards, when their bellies are full of good food. “So you  _ knew _ you couldn’t cook?”

Aziraphale looks flustered. “I  _ thought  _ I was doing ok. Well, maybe not ok, but  _ decent _ at the very least.”

Crowley blinks. “Angel,” he says slowly, “you’ve eaten food made by the best chefs on Earth. How in the world did you think what you’d cooked was ok?”

“I usually can cook ok!” Aziraphale protests. “I just. Well.” 

Then Aziraphale gives him that look, and oh for Hell’s sake Crowley  _ knows  _ that look. It’s the look that he gave Crowley back when he wanted Hamlet to be a success, or back when his coat got splattered with paint. 

Crowley sighs and kicks back the rest of his wine. “I’ll cook from now on,” he promises. “And we need to teach you how to  _ ask _ for things, angel. I might have known you for 6000 and some years, but that doesn’t I know every little thought in your head.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Aziraphale leans back. “Sorry I tortured you with food.”

“Eh, well,” Crowley says, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own. “Tortured is a strong word.”


End file.
